


Sassy Spatula Assassin

by GraphiteWrites



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Chronicles of Riddick - Freeform, Dana Carvey honorable mention, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Master of Disguise, Pancakes, bad movie references, domestic bucky, sassy spatula assassin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2185557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphiteWrites/pseuds/GraphiteWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky’s pancake-making is interrupted by a random Hydra sneaking into his and Nat’s apartment. He decides to be plucky, making terrible movie references and killing with flair!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sassy Spatula Assassin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bedb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bedb/gifts).



> So, this was inspired by bedb here on AO3 and her fic "Only at Disneyworld," specifically chapter 5. Bucky tells Sam, “I can’t remember if I ever offed anyone with a spatula, but if I had, you’d be in trouble.”
> 
> From there, my head made a mess of things full of terrible movie references and Nat complaining about blood stains.

He cracked the fragile shell along the hard ceramic edge, sending splintering cracks across the surface. Then, he deftly worked his fleshy fingers between the fractures, spreading them easily with a wet sound. The clear, goopy white fell into the batter followed by the _plop_ of the yolk. A second egg smacked against the edge of the bowl and joined the first before being attacked with the whisk. Chunky, fork-mashed banana was mixed in last.

Bucky took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he smelled the batter hit the hot cast iron skillet. He smiled and turned the bacon on the stove-top griddle to his left. Breakfast was coming together perfect. By the time her shower was over, everything should be ready. He flipped the first pancake and heard the faintest rustle behind him, with the slight _creak_ that is the hole in the floor over by the balcony window.

“Wow, you’re loud,” Bucky muttered as he turned around slowly, hot spatula in hand.

Before him stood a tall, lithe blond man dressed in all black tactical gear, a knife held at the ready in one hand; the other was hovering near the grip of the pistol at his side. Despite being caught, the HYDRA agent’s lips split into a wide grin. The sight of the Winter Soldier barefoot and in plaid sleep pants was amusing as all hell. Just looking at the guy screamed domesticity. He would fit the bill of doting housewife if it weren’t for that glaring metal appendage.

Without another word, a quiet fight broke out. Hits were landed and blocked on both sides. A strong right hook broke the agent’s nose with a sickening crack and blood began to spout from his nostrils. There was a close call when Bucky barley got the bowl of pancake batter out of the splatter zone. He still wanted breakfast after all this. That was when he started pushing the action out of the kitchen. After landing a knee to the agent’s solar plexus, Bucky took a step back as the other man fought to catch his breath, an arm wrapped around his midsection.

“Is that it, Soldier?” the agent huffed out as he tried to straighten.

Bucky grinned darkly and presented the metal spatula. “See my spatula?” he asked pointedly as he very slowly and calmly set it on the counter to his left. “I’ll kill you with my spatula.”

The agent’s brown knit together in confusion as his gaze moved from the prone spatula, to Bucky, and back. Then his face went slack in disbelief. “Did… Did you just make a movie reference at me?”

Bucky’s smile got impossibly wide as he moved with record speed. His right fist landed a strong uppercut to the agent’s jaw as he spun and scooped up the spatula with his metal hand. There was a loud slap as the flat of the cooking utensil met the blond’s cheek. The agent looked at Bucky incredulously.

“Who’s your daddy?” Bucky whispered at him with a hint of a laugh.

“What?” the blond managed through broken teeth and an aching jaw.

Bucky’s arm swung from underneath and the spatula connected with the agent’s other cheek, snapping his head around hard with the force behind that powerful prosthetic. Three more debilitatingly hard smacks each punctuated with a word in a terrible Italian accent, “Who’s-a. Your-a. Daddy!”

The agent’s eyes quit rolling around in his head long enough to look at Bucky with a resigned expression. He was going to die at the hands of an assassin in his pajamas, with a spatula, quoting Dana Carvey movies. This was _not_ how he imagined going out. His eyes widened impossibly in a last moment of utter clarity as the Soldier’s eyes went dark and he pulled back that metal arm with the spatula point straight at him. An impossibly fast, glimmering blur imbedded the wide end of the utensil deep in his throat, severing his trachea. The force pushed his body to land square on his back on the living room carpet.

Nat emerged from the bathroom in her robe, toweling off her hair and stopped dead at the end of the hall, taking in the scene before her. She smelled burning bananas and saw Bucky with a busted lip and blood splattering his bare chest. He was standing over the convulsing body of a dying Hydra agent who had blood spurting from his neck around her good spatula.

She looked at him in shock. “Really, James?! You couldn’t have taken this outside on the fire escape? Or at least on the damn tile? Blood _stains!_ ”

He looked at her helplessly, like a kid who was just trying to help. He gestured desperately at the burning pancake and abandoned bowl of remaining batter. “I was trying not to get blood in the pancakes!”

She draped her towel over the back of a chair and walked up to the Hydra agent, now in the final small spasms of death, and planted her foot square on his chest. With a firm grip on the rubber handle, she yanked out the spatula with a thick, wet, sucking noise and held it up to him.

“And what the hell do you call this?” she pointed at it the dripping flapjack flipper for emphasis.

He just shrugged and threw on a lopsided smile, “Washable?”


End file.
